rhage a letter of credit. The morphia man, being nearer recovered, speaks first.
“Goodall: Memphis—pulmonary tuberculosis—guess last stages.” The Three Thousand economize on words. Words are breath, and they need breath to write checks for the doctors.
“Hurd,” gasps the other. “Hurd; of T’leder. T’leder, Ah-hia. Catarrhal bronkeetis. Name’s Dennis, too—doctor says. Says I’ll,—live four weeks if I—take care of myself. Got your walking papers yet?”
“My doctor,” says Goodall, of Memphis, a little boastingly, “gives me three months.”
“Oh,” remarks the man from Toledo, filling up great gaps in his conversation with wheezes, “damn the difference. What’s months! Expect to—cut mine down to one week—and die in a hack—a four wheeler, not a cough. Be considerable
